


anatomical, metaphysical

by Mx_Carter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail Hobbs Lives, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Beverly Katz Lives, Episode Fix-It: s02e13 Mizumono, M/M, Murder Family, Non-Linear Narrative, Someone Help Will Graham, abigail isnt helping will much either, fix it depending on whose perspective you take, is it cannibalism if you're a vampire? serious questions are being asked, no not you hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-03-31 01:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13963950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Carter/pseuds/Mx_Carter
Summary: “Will,” he asks softly, “why is this man not dead yet?”Hannibal isn't even slightly human, and Will isn't even slightly okay.





	1. all your worries, such a waste of time

**Author's Note:**

> More a collection of bits from the same universe than your actual story. I may have a Thing for supernatural aus. This definitely does not make me a monsterfucker 
> 
> Title from Love Crime by Siouxsie Sioux and Brian Reitzell.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Abigail are settling into their new home. Will...is not.

He’d very much prefer that they leave the country, but sadly that will not be possible at the moment. Still, Hannibal has prepared for this. The three of them are sequestered in New Hampshire, in one of his most hidden safe houses. Large, isolated and surrounded by forest. It really is perfect for his current needs, although a little too rustic for his tastes.

Still, he’s lived in worse, and he’s hardly in a position to be picky right now. What matters is safety and isolation. Will cannot be endangered or disturbed; his condition is far too delicate at the moment.

The door behind him swings open, and Abigail’s scent filters into the cool air as she pads onto the deck. Her footsteps are almost inaudible. He’ll have to speak to her about that; making noise as you move is considered common courtesy among their kind. It shouldn’t be hard for her to learn, she’s taken to her new life like a duck to water. He’s very proud.

He doesn’t ask about Will, but she volunteers the information anyway. “He’s sleeping. Badly. The human’s still alive.”

Hannibal sighs. Stubborn Will, of course he would still find a way to be difficult. He turns and enters the house again.

 

~~~

 

The basement isn’t at all suitable for living in, but it’s the only room with a secure enough lock to stop an angry fledgling. Will won’t be living there much longer, anyway. It’s been two days; either the change is completed within two more, or Will dies. Hannibal knows which outcome he prefers.

His fledging is curled into a corner, face pressed into his sleeve. The muscles showing through his torn clothing are taut with self-restraint. He reeks of pain and the strange mixed scent of the half-changed.

He’s beautiful.

Hannibal manages to drag his eyes from Will to the other corner, where his latest gift to Will stands. The human, snatched from the last large town they had passed through, had jerked to his feet when Hannibal entered the room. He is pressed against the wall and is muttering something that sounds a little like “please don’t kill me”. Hannibal ignores him. It isn’t hard.

“Will,” he says, gently as he knows how to be, moving into his fledgling’s space, but not quite touching him. The poor man’s senses will have become overwhelming by now, and he likely hasn’t even realised Hannibal is in the room yet. At the sound of his name Will unfolds slowly to glare at him. That is good; he knows enough of himself to hate Hannibal. The way his body sways subconsciously towards him is also promising.

“Will,” he asks softly, “why is this man not dead yet?”

The human whimpers pathetically and Will’s bloodshot eyes dart to him.

“Should I knock him out?” Hannibal inquires. “Would that be easier for you?”

The headshake is jerky; Will can barely take his eyes off the human now. A good sign. His lips are pulling back from his teeth, but Hannibal can’t be certain whether it’s in hunger or anger. Probably both.

“You need energy, Will, for the change to complete itself.”

“So get me a Gatorade.” His fledgling’s voice is cracked and weak, but he still has the strength for defiance. It’s pleasing.

“At this stage, your body would reject it. You have to feed, or you’ll start digesting organs.”

A quick lift of the shoulders. The smell of pain becomes even thicker.

Hannibal sighs. He knows Will well enough to know he won’t be argued down. Drastic measures will have to be taken. He draws the knife he had carried in his pocket and sends it slamming into the human’s wrist.

The man screams, curling around his injured arm and sinking to the floor. Blood is flowing freely down his arm, soaking into his shirt and running along the floor towards them. Hannibal delicately steps aside to save his shoes.

Will is shaking now, eyes locked on the human’s wound. Hannibal is suddenly overcome with admiration for his Will; any other fledgling would have leapt on the meal the second it became available. Hannibal certainly hadn’t been able to hold himself back so well.

He dismisses that unwelcome thought in favour of watching the way Will twitches towards his offering. Only for a second, before he turns and starts up the stairs again. It will be easier for Will to let himself go without a reminder of why he shouldn’t in the room with him. The human calls out for aid, and in his panic, breaks his position and sprints towards the stairs. The man really is too stupid to live. No matter how strong Will is, there is no way he will be able to stop himself giving chase.

The last thing Hannibal sees before he closes the door is Will tackling his prey to the ground. By the time he reaches the kitchen, the screams have stopped.

Abigail looks up from the book she’s been pretending to read, full of worry. When Hannibal smiles at her, she relaxes and laughs, bright and beautiful with relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Lemon Eyes by Meg Myers, for possessive, victorious hannibal.


	2. thank your lord i don't have my way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly is alive, after a manner of speaking. This doesn’t do much to improve her mood.

She coughs and she jerks and bolts upright, liquid streaming down her sides. Her vision is blurry as hell, but by the time she gets it focused she’s mapped out the dimensions of the stone tub she’s lying in, and has realised that someone else is in the room.

“I was wondering how long it was going to take for you to heal,” Hannibal fucking Lecter says, like they’re discussing the weather. “Two days, if you’re wondering. I must say, I’m impressed. You must be at least as old as I am, possibly older.”

Beverly sucks in lungfuls of cold cellar air, hand still clutching at the tender skin over –

“You ripped out my heart,” she gasps out.

“Just so,” he says, and she swings her head to glare at where he’s sitting on a chair, watching her. She feels her fangs slide out before she can stop them, she’s that furious.

“How the fuck has no-one decapitated you yet, Lecter?”

“I couldn’t say,” he replies. “I imagine you would like to give it a go.”

Beverly lets her face settle into a snarl. “Just give me your back.”

Lecter smiles, just a little flick of his mouth. “I think not. You’ve done quite enough damage to me.”

When she closes her eyes, she remembers ripping half the skin off his back and severing his Achilles tendon, and she smiles. The smile drops when she remembers his fist sinking into her chest, tearing through her ribs. It’s not the first time someone’s done something like that to her; it doesn’t get more pleasant with repetition.

“What did you do with it?” Beverly asks, trying to get her breathing back under control. It’s getting easier – Lecter at least had the decency to put her in some sort of enchanted oil solution, she can almost smell the magic it’s been imbued with.

“I hung it in the observatory, wrapped in your hair. Don’t worry, I cleaned out the blood first.”

She didn’t think she could be angrier with him, but it comes back in waves. “So they think I’m dead.”

He inclines his head, and she takes deep breaths. She’s still healing, and he’ll have fed by now, is probably even wearing some sort of protective gear. Tempting as it is, Beverly hasn’t lived this long without knowing a fight she really, properly can’t win.

“You would have had to go at some point, Agent Katz.” Maybe he thinks his voice sounds kind. “Why not as a hero?”

She scrubs her hand over her face and hauls herself out of the tub. It hurts like all fuck, but she can’t lie there another minute. Lecter twitches like his instinct is to help her out – someone bred the manners deep into this one – but he’s too smart to come near her just yet. There’s a showerhead attached to the wall – probably to rinse off blood from the messes he likes to make so much. She uses it to get as much of the oil off her as she can, but doesn’t bother too much with her hair. It’s going to be gross and greasy for days, she’s just going to have to deal with it. He’s left her out a towel too, and a set of clothes, on another chair opposite his. She dries off and gets dressed, still seething, and makes herself sit down. Through it all, Lecter watches her. It’s not creepy, more like he’s keeping track of her. Good, she thinks viciously.

“This going to tear Will apart,” she says, suddenly exhausted. Lecter smiles, this one wider and worse.

Beverly looks right back. She’s seen worse.

“Yes,” he simply says.

“What’s your game with him?” she asks. Ancestors help her, she does care. She’s tried, over the centuries, not to. It’s never worked for her, and she stopped trying a long time ago. There’s more than one way to deal with immortality.

“What it is, Agent Katz,” Lecter says, “is not your concern anymore.” They stand up together, eyes locked on each other. For a moment, she thinks they’re going to throw down again, but then he flicks another smile. “I win this round, I think.”

She straightens her shoulders out and walks to the door. Lecter follows her and opens it, for all the world like a butler. She thinks of hitting him, but he doesn’t appear to be mocking her. Apparently she’s a worthy opponent.

“Here’s to the next one,” she says, making sure he sees her teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was no way in hell I was going to write a vampire AU without saving Bev. Don't worry, she'll be back - she did promise Hannibal round two.
> 
> Title from Marked Man by Mieka Pauley, bc Vengence


	3. and killing things is not so hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail reflects on forests and fathers, and who she’s becoming.

Abigail Hobbs has died twice on the shitty linoleum floor of her childhood home’s kitchen. Twice, she’s been brought back. Hannibal was there for both those times, but Will had only been there the first. She can vaguely remember his blood-splattered face staring down at her, unpractised hands scrabbling at her throat. The second time, when she’d tried so hard not to panic, to remember that this wasn’t true death, a becoming instead of an end – only her body didn’t know that, all it know was she was losing too much blood and she needed to _survive_ – she’d half-thought she could see him crouched over her again, trying desperately to save her one last time.

It doesn’t matter. He’s here now.

Now they’re pretty sure he’s not going to properly die, Abigail feels a lot calmer. The last week has been more stressful than the last five months combined, a dizzying sprint instead of the slow crawling marathon of adjustment to her new life. Now she can relax, it’s kind of nice to be somewhere that isn’t Hannibal’s Baltimore house. The forest surrounding them is familiar and brand new all at once, like rereading a favourite childhood book and finding a whole new meaning in it. Abigail gets to explore for hours every night, seeing the trees and underbrush like an owl must – black and silver, everything somehow sharper and more real than the bright colours of daytime. The cold air teems with noises and scents, and she can almost taste the heartbeats of the animals she shares the night with. She figures out how to jump from tree to tree like the vampires in Twilight, and can’t quite stop herself from giggling every time she does it.

She’s been trying to stop giggling. It feels unbecoming somehow, now she’s so much more than she used to be.

During the days she sticks to the house. After the months of living together, Hannibal and her have learned how to be in each other’s space without friction, even though she thinks they’re both kind of solitary by nature. Him being her sire helps, probably. She’s getting good enough at piano to play proper pieces, and while she won’t ever say it, she definitely prefers it to the harpsichord. The mellower sound is nicer, and she likes being able to vary the volume. There’s plenty of books around too. Abigail’s not bored.

Hannibal isn’t bored either, despite being stuck in the middle of nowhere and having lost his meticulously crafted life and most of his many amusements. He’s mostly just _smug_. Fair enough, really. As far as him and Will are concerned, he’s pretty much won.

He doesn’t lord it over the poor guy, to be fair on him, though that might just be self-preservation. Will’s already made two pretty credible attempts to rip Hannibal’s throat out, despite being all weak and shaky. Hannibal seems more proud than anything else, but he’s been keeping his distance. Until Will gets desperate and heartsick enough to come to him of his own accord, that is. That moment will come eventually, the bond between sire and fledgling being what it is, and Abigail knows how much Hannibal is going to enjoy it.

If she were Will, she’d have given in days ago, just to deny Hannibal the satisfaction of crawling to him. But Will is still sick with fear and blood and his own darkness. Even now something in him still needs to fight, right up until the moment he can’t anymore.

He never fights her. Abigail doesn’t think he’s got any illusions about her, anymore, but she guesses she’s still the lesser of two evils. He’ll let her come near him, even hug him when he’s shaking and covered in blood, when he twitches as if he wants to crawl out of his skin like a snake. Maybe he lets her near precisely because he doesn’t have any more illusions about her, because he knows she understands. Abigail has shaken too, even if her dad never literally covered her in the blood of his kills.

It’s complicated, the things she feels about Will. He’d killed her dad, and a part of Abigail’s fucked up brain can’t help thinking that this makes him her dad, sort of. Like she’s the Elder Wand, passing from killer to killer. If she could hate him like she wanted to at first, that would be different, but she could never manage it – she’s always enjoyed how off-kilter he is, his weird mind and crazy job and how many dogs he has. Had, now, she guesses. Hopefully someone’s looking after them.

Still, before she’d been turned she could never all the way relax with him either. It’s that desperate, reverent way he used to look at her, like she was the one good thing in an evil world, and he wanted to wrap her up in cotton wool and lock her away so she’ll never be corrupted by it. It’s how her dad used to look at her. Hannibal had said he couldn’t help it, not really, that he’d connected to her first through her dad and he hadn’t always been able to stop seeing her with his eyes. That image had made Abigail shiver, the thought of white, dead eyes staring out from behind Will’s.

In the cabin, the day she’d died the second time, when he’d finally realised she was just as dark and bloody as everything else in his life – that had been the first time she’d been properly scared of him.

She’s not scared of him anymore. Not since she’d stood in her first family’s kitchen with Hannibal cupping her face in tender hands. Will might have been half crazy with brain disease and her dad’s ghost, but he hadn’t been a monster. Even if he had been, he’d have been a monster made of fur and forest and cold night wind, a monster of the woods she knew like her own skin. Something she could understand.

And now Abigail’s a monster too, and so’s Will, for real; though he doesn’t look much like it at the moment, passed out on the couch again. He mostly looks and smells worn out. Abigail can’t help feeling sorry for him – she remembers what that was like, how long it took her to get up every evening. There’s a tenderness to the way she feels watching him lie there, and it’s a bit off-putting to feel like that about a grown man.

But he’s not anymore, Abigail supposes. In vampire terms, he’s younger than her.

Like he can tell she’s watching, Will’s eyes slide open. They catch just below her own eyes and he smiles wanly at her. He’s much less guarded with her than he is with Hannibal, but he still tries to hide how much pain he’s in, like he doesn’t want her to worry. He does still baby her a bit, even knowing her. If the alternative is hating her, she’ll take it.

She walks over to him and perches on the arm of the couch, leaning down to dig her fingers into his hair. Until recently it was matted with sweat and grease, but she’d managed to get him to shower yesterday. Will had needed her to actually get in with him to keep him upright and wash his hair, and he’d blushed bright with borrowed blood at being naked in front of her, at her stripping to her undies. Abigail hadn’t minded it at all. She would have once, having been brought up by God-fearing Midwesterners. Not anymore. She’s so much more now.

Will sighs with quiet pleasure at her hands in his hair, and finally lets himself relax into it. Abigail digs her fingers into his scalp as a reward. Idly, she wonders if he’ll try and attack her when he finds out she’d persuaded Hannibal to turn him.

It’s fine if he does. People can forgive anything given enough time, and they’re going to have plenty of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Trout Heart Replica by Amanda Palmer, which i think nicely captures abigail’s becoming


End file.
